


we need to talk about kara

by karalovesallthegirls



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Grief, PTSD, Post Season 4, Therapy, coping skills, healing through community, in-depth trauma examination, talks of suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-18 10:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20637914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karalovesallthegirls/pseuds/karalovesallthegirls
Summary: Everyone needs help sometimes. Even heroes.





	1. Hope

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story that deals with suicidal ideation, trauma, PTSD, and various other serious mental health issues. If any of these subjects are difficult for you, I would advise serious caution before reading this or even avoiding this story all together. There is a happy ending - again, THERE IS A HAPPY ENDING - but it is one that follows a lot of hardship. The road to healing is painful and long, and my hope is that this story allows us to walk it with Kara. 
> 
> I am not a licensed therapist. I have had training in counseling, but I am not able to ethically provide any counseling services through the internet. I ask that you not message me looking for that. At the end of each chapter, I will provide a link to a page that has some resources for any who might want them.
> 
> \------
> 
> This is my love letter to Kara Danvers and the power of good therapy.

Kara is doing good.

She is, really. She defeated Lex Luthor, her cousin’s arch nemesis, and she stopped Red Daughter from destroying her image completely. She revealed the Children of Liberty for the xenophobic monsters they are and helped restore some faith in the people of America. She may even win a Pulitzer this year.

So many loose threads in her life have tied off into neat little bows.

So of course she’s doing good. She’s great! How could she not be? It doesn’t make sense for her to be struggling when so much is going her way.

The problem is that usually when things are good you can feel it, there will be a palpable emotion that makes you feel buzzed and alive and excited - and Kara isn’t feeling that. She’s not feeling much of anything, right now.

Things should have been easier after it all ended. She should have woken up every morning full of lightness and joy. The run-of-the-mill criminal should be nothing after what she’s already faced down. Life should be a relief.

But it isn’t.

Things aren’t easier. 

The weight never lifted, even when the sky seemed to clear.

She stopped sleeping. Not intentionally, not completely, it’s just that whenever she closes her eyes for too long she’ll start to see them so it feels better to just keep her eyes open. Every night, different people reveal themselves in that same shared moment. Astra. Rhea. Patricia Arias. The man she lost when her powers were gone. Vicky from accounting. The Worldkillers. Herself, in her own arms. Her entire planet, lost in a blink.  
Every time she closes her eyes she is haunted by the dead she couldn’t save. But it’s fine. She doesn’t need sleep.

She’s fine.

She leaves the light on every night.

* * *

  
Life is good. Normal.

She goes to work, she spends time with her friends. They do karaoke and game nights, they watch movies and try new restaurants. The world continues on as if everything that had happened hadn’t. She’s fine for so much of the day, she smiles and laughs and jokes.

She’s fine until she’s not; until the dark heaviness that always seems to lurk within her chest makes itself known. She’ll be perfectly content and then, like a switch, she’ll be drowning. It feels like drowning.

“You okay?” Alex asks, catching Kara zoning out mid-game. Kara smiles and swallows it down.

“Of course,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

* * *

There is no time limit on grief.

* * *

Kara dreams of her mother’s face as she tucked Kara away in her coffin. So serene. Certain.

“This is the right choice,” she seems to say, though her lips remain unmoved from her tight smile, “I die for you.”

Her mother seems to melt before the explosion hits, disintegrating into fiery red as Kara’s coffin shoots her off into the darkness alone.

Kara wakes crying.

* * *

Three major events happen in National City back-to-back - a political scandal, a corrupt CEO, a new batch of alien protestors blocking off major intersections throughout the city. They end up pulling all-nighters at the CatCo office trying to beat the news rush.

“Oh God," a coworker groans, "there are three more alien protests hitting as we speak. This is another five hours of work, at least. Kill me. I’d rather die than do this.”

“Wouldn’t we all,” Kara says in return, shuffling through the papers.

They all laugh.

* * *

Kara wakes to her alarm. She’s drained. Her chest and head ache. 

She goes to work. 

She goes to the DEO.

Her day passes without her input or control - she finds herself only really aware of what’s happening every so often, like she is a passenger in her own body just along for the ride.

Her friends invite her to get drinks, but the idea of it fills her with dread.

She goes home instead, and lays in bed. She stares unseeing at the wall for some time. She does not know how much time passes. Eventually, she sleeps, and starts the cycle again.

* * *

Kara wakes slowly, consciousness creeping in like sludge.

She’s hot. Her hands feel ragged against the glass of the sun bed beneath her. The fog over her mind is heavy, but starting to lift. Slowly, she opens her eyes.

Alex is beside her, slumped in a seat like she’d slept there all night. Her heavy eyes look relieved to meet Kara’s.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Alex says, moving to grab Kara’s hand but pulling back when Kara whines in pain.

“’t happened?” Kara slurs.

“You got knocked around pretty bad."

“Mm,” she hums, then attempts a smile, “but how does the other guy look?”

“Like he got his ass kicked by a Kryptonian, for sure,” Alex humors. 

Kara closes her eyes and tries to remember. She was fighting a Maaldorian... or was it a Hellgrammite? There are so many, week after week, that she starts to lose track. It doesn’t matter, what matters is-

“Everybody safe?” she asks.

“Yep. They got all the civilians out while you were taking a beating,” it’s said in a light-hearted tone but Kara can feel the anxiety. “You had us worried there for a minute.”

Kara hums again and places her hand on top of her sister’s. She can feel the torn pieces of herself reattaching, her body sewing itself together like some Frankenstein creation. It hurts even as it heals, and all she can feel is relief that no one was injured besides her. The way it should be.

Kara drifts off to sleep for some time after that, only waking up to an alarm sounding in the nearby lab. She sees Alex start to get up from where she’d sat and Kara heaves forward in an attempt to sit up, only stopped by the sharp pain in her ribs and the panicked hands of her sister.

“Woah woah woah, where do you think you’re going?” Alex asks furiously, and Kara is just confused.

“There’s an emergency,” she says like it’s the most obvious statement. “I need to go.”

“I know I was joking around earlier but, Kara-“ she shakes her head, “You’re still seriously injured and you need to rest.”

“It’s fine. I can deal with all this,” she gestures to her injuries with her still bloodied hand, “after I deal with whatever is going on now.”

“Kara. I don’t think you’re hearing me. You almost died tonight.”

“Almost,” she says. Alex tries to physically block her from leaving, saying,

“Yeah, and what happens if you get out there and your powers give out?”

Kara glides past easily, already turning the corner. 

“Then I die and we can stop having this discussion.”

She leaves Alex standing there, stunned.

* * *

Alex comes over later that day and Kara realizes she’s been staring at the wall for well over an hour. 

“Are you okay?” Alex asks.

“Yeah, why?”

“You’re crying.”

Kara wipes at her face. She didn’t even realize. 

* * *

“Have you noticed anything weird going on with Kara lately?” 

* * *

She remembers the first time the thought articulated in her mind, though its arrival was by no means sudden.

It felt a bit like waking to a house fire. She had had no alarm to alert her, nothing to wake her while her walls burned. The flames were already there, licking at her furniture as she slept away. The burning wreckage of a dying planet lit the tinder in her chest a decade ago, and every moment since has fanned its growing flame until she had no choice but to wake to it with a sharp, unbridled thought:

**There’s really no reason to be here anymore.**

It comes back again and again.

It hits when she comes for a baby and finds a man instead.

It hits when Astra dies in her arms.

It hits after Mon-el leaves. After she sends him away.

Every time, she sacrifices and it hits her.

She sacrificed a certain death with those she loved for an unknowable future, for decades spent in a pitch black hole hurtling towards the unknown. She’s a hero then.

She witnesses the woman who wears her mother’s face die at the hands of her found sister, and she forgives. She’s a hero.

And when she must choose between a possible life with a man who walked the same path as her, who could see their shared history through the same blood-covered lens, she sacrificed. She sent him away. The invasion was thwarted, the Earth was safe for a little while longer. Another tie to her old self was severed. 

Every time. their storyline is wrapped neat with a bow as the chapter ends. The time of Krypton ended, its chapter closed. Astra the great general died on a blade, as she was always meant to. The daxamites were gone, and everyone started anew - the boys have their Guardian work, Alex had Maggie. 

Every time a new chapter would start and it felt harder to keep turning the page. The next chapter began, and all Kara could do was drag her heels and grab at the page she’s not ready to turn. She didn’t want to go to that next chapter. The one before was hard enough to get through - now she had to do it again? 

She should be finished. She earned an epilogue.

But things didn’t end.Things never do for the daughter of a dead world. Maggie left, Winn left, more people died. The pages kept turning.

She already endured so much, survived the unsurvivable, and still there was no end. It’s hard to keep fighting a war that will never be won.

It stops being a relief to wake up after a fight. When she first started, it was a terror and a joy to wake up on a sun-bed with her sister at her side. Death was a towering adversary she just managed to slip, and that first breath felt like hope.

But there were always more fights. More blood spit onto cracked pavement, more adversaries seemingly worse than the last to slam her down. Each one faced with all her might, defiant even as she trembled. She gives her all every time she is beaten into the darkness, and every time she is asked to do it again.

The returning light stops feeling like a reward.

That warmth isn’t a gift anymore. It’s obligation. 

Waking up means doing it again, and again, and again. An endless parade of burning out and reigniting so the world has its guiding light, a light they worship until she falters in the slightest. One they dispose of easily at the first sign of weakness or corruption. It takes little persuasion for the world to turn, and still she burns for it. 

She’s so tired of burning.

* * *

She battles another great evil, she wakes up on a glass slab to the sensation of her body stitching itself back together. Broken pieces forced back into place, she can practically feel herself creaking into shape. She knows she is healed back to perfect, that marks made on Earth will never scar, but she can still feel the phantom pains of past injuries. When she closes her eyes she can see all the places she’s bled, can feel the skin tears and bruises. She feels everything.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Alex says, and Kara can’t bring herself to smile.

* * *

She soon finds out that an agent was killed that day. The funeral service is packed, family and coworkers alike gather together to commemorate the sacrifice. The early morning sun paints the graveyard in an ethereal glow. 

“No greater love is there than this,” the preacher’s voice echoes across the crowd, “to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”

They throw dirt on his casket.

* * *

They are required to see a grief counselor before being cleared for work. Kara’s sassy remark that she isn’t technically a DEO employee so she doesn’t need clearance proves fruitless, and she finds herself sitting in the counselor’s makeshift office. It’s sterile and clearly repurposed from an unused storage room, and the grief counselor seems exhausted when she walks in, though he perks up immediately. She recognizes the look of admiration and stands a bit taller.

“So, Supergirl,” the counselor says, and Kara can hear the awe in his voice. “how are you feeling?”

Kara doesn’t know how she feels, so she says what Supergirl should,

“I’m heartbroken for the agent’s family and friends. I’m more determined now than ever to try and keep our citizens safe.”

It’s a stock answer, empty and impersonal. The counselor smiles and writes something down.

“Does death scare you?” he asks, and Kara thinks of a million Kryptonian lives extinguished in an instant. 

“It’s my earliest memory,” she says, honest, then follows with, "My people died when I was a child. I was sent here to protect yours. That’s my purpose."

She’s cleared for combat duty.

* * *

  
CatCo.

The DEO.

New battles all the same, days bleeding into next. She’ll blink on Monday and find herself deep into Wednesday with only the foggiest memory of her journey. Whole chunks of time are lost into the haze. She’s a voyeur to her own life, watching as hands she doesn’t quite control hit her foes, write her stories. She maintains enough to function, to glide by. When people give her looks the flash of panic will jolt her out of it briefly, just enough for her to smile and reiterate that she’s good, she’s fine. She’s okay. Then slip back in as soon as it’s safe.  


* * *

  
CatCo.

Snapper yells at them again.

Kara makes eye contact with someone who jokingly mimes shooting himself in the head. She laughs, then looks down under Snapper’s scrutiny. 

* * *

  
DEO.

Kara is laughing at something Brainy says when the alarm sounds. Another alien is causing chaos, just as strong as the others. Just as determined to kill her.

Another evil challenged, another foe beating her into the ground. She’s slower to raise her fists this time, slower to defend. She’s knocked out faster than ever before. 

She tries to hide her disappointment at waking up again in the DEO.  


* * *

days bleed into days bleed into days bleed into days

* * *

  
She will wonder if it was something she was born into, if the weight of sorrow was genetically ingrained. Or did it start that day she said goodbye? Did the sadness take grip as her mother pushed her away, as the world exploded around her sending her hurdling into the unchanging darkness? Is this feeling a weed that’s grown in her veins, spreading and clogging her insides every day until her organs crush between their vines? Is it even there at all, she wonders, or is she only pretending.  


* * *

  
She faces a new villain worse than all who came before, as they all seem to be. It feels like every new enemy takes pointers from her last. Every situation is the ultimate showdown.

Sparks fly as machinery explodes around them, the heat of combat barely a warmth against her skin. Alex and her team are helping civilians escape while Kara distracts. She can’t beat this one, not right now, but she can hold them off until the building is clear.

“Pathetic,” the creature taunts, hurling another blast that leaves Kara staggering. She can taste blood in her mouth, feel it dripping into her eyes. “The straggling heir of a dead race. Why are you fighting still?”

“Just hold a little longer, Kara,” Alex says in her ear piece. She can hear their movements as they pull the last civilians from the building.

“I’m not afraid,” Kara says in a voice that trembles.

The creature hurls another burst that knocks her back, sending her crashing into the sparking electrical parts. With shaking hands, she pulls herself back to her feet. The creature gurgles in a rage.

“Are you ready to see them, little child? Are you ready to join your people in their grave?” 

Kara lifts her fists, ignoring the displacement of three of her knuckles. They’re broken, purpling and raw. Her lip quivers.

“I’m not afraid,” she says again.

Alex’s voice chirps in her ear.

“Kara, the building is clear. We’re good! Get out of there!”

The creature’s long limb winds back, and she can see the charging energy build for its final blow. 

“Are you ready, child?” it snarls, “Are you ready for your end?”

Alex is shouting her name in her ear, begging her to get out of there with what strength she still has. Kara closes her eyes.

“I’m not afraid,” she says, and the blast overtakes her.  


* * *

  
Sometimes Kara feels like a ghost, like maybe she died with her people and her spirit is trapped in some place in between. Even after a decade on Earth it still feels foreign - foreign culture, foreign language, foreign sun. The weightlessness of flight and strength that can shred steel feel like a dream. There is nothing actual, nothing solid to hold on to anymore. If she holds too tightly to anything it will shatter in her arms. Exist too much, and risk breaking everything.  


* * *

  
Kara wakes to soft whispers and the hum of the sunbed. 

It's a familiar hum that comforts as much as it annoys. She feels her knuckles shifting beneath her skin, joints slipping back into sockets with a sickening squelch. She redirects her focus on the whispers so as to not focus too hard on the ways her body reassembles.

"I told you," Alex is saying quietly in another room, close enough to hear even as she whispers. Her voice is, unlike the mechanical hum, a comfort. Kara rests her eyes as she listens to her speak. "I'm telling you. I just know it. Something isn't right."

"She's been through a lot," J'onn says. "It's normal for her to be struggling."

"This isn't struggling. You saw the videos, you saw what she did. Maybe they're right, J'onn. Maybe there is something wrong with my sister."

Kara opens her eyes.  


* * *

  
When they tell her, her first instinct is to laugh.

“Wow, that’s-” she laughs again, a bit forced, “I mean, it definitely was not my best for sure, but I don't,” she trails off.

"That is only considering your most recent fight, Kara," J'onn says. "There's more."

A whole video essay more, apparently. She had been unconscious for the last two days as she healed, and in that time some superhero commentator had created a video essay all about her. It had gone viral.

It’s 20 minutes long and seems to be a compilation of news clips and civilian recordings of her fights, all narrated by the video creator as he discusses the video’s central idea, titled - _Is Supergirl Suicidal?_

Dozens of fights showing her dropping her guard, closing her eyes, leaning in to the hits. Going to the brink of death without hesitation. Face twitching with disappointment when she is left standing over her enemy.

The most damning of all is the final footage, a short clip from her most recent fight from which she is still healing.

There had been a camera nearby as she fought the creature, one that caught her facial expressions throughout. It has no audio, no access to Alex's pleas for Kara to take flight please, Kara, get out of there - it only caught her trembling frame, her purpling hands. Her closed eyes and peaceful smile as the blast hit her.

J’onn clears his throat, lets his fingers tap a short rhythm on his desk.

“There is," he says, slow and diplomatic, "a lot for us to consider right now. We’d like you to stay here under supervision until we have a better handle on the situation.”

Panic creeps at the edges of her vision, black and suffocating. She laughs again, voice too high.

“J’onn, come on. I wasn’t trying to die, I'm never trying to die. I'm Supergirl. I just- this is all a misunderstanding,” she feels a desperate chill overtake her senses. Like a wounded animal, cornered in a hunter’s trap.

“Alex?” she turns to look at her sister who, since the moment she first woke up, refuses to meet her eyes, “Come on, you don’t really think…”

She doesn’t know how to end that sentence. Alex visibly gulps.

“Just do what he says, Kara,” she says softly.

She can practically feel the trap snap shut.  


* * *

  
Sometimes, back when she was still new to the planet, Kara would pretend she was an ambassador. That she had been sent to represent her people on behalf of Krypton, that her place here on Earth was temporary and significant. Imagining that her family was still waiting for her, proud of her and the work she was doing, helped make the days hurt less. But fantasies are never satisfying, and denial only lets the wound fester.

There was no hero’s welcome waiting for her. 

The world she’d been promised from birth, every cultural memory her people had carried through generations, vanished in a flash. Home is a dark and empty void filled with the charred remains of her history. She was a refugee, and no matter how hard she worked to be good and honorable she was never going home. Home isn’t a thing she got to have anymore.  


* * *

  
They set her up in one of the empty barracks. It’s small and impersonal, just a bunk bed and a metal desk. They tell her it’s just for tonight, just so they can have everything contained until morning.

Alex insists on staying with her on the other bed, but they quickly end up curled around each other in Kara’s. 

Kara wakes during the night to find Alex staring at her and petting her hair.

“I don’t want to live without you,” Alex whispers, her voice barely audible.

“You’d be okay,” she whispers back. She's tired, and it’s dark. Emotions are always easier in the dark.

“You can’t leave me,” Alex insists, “If you go, I go.”

“You can’t guilt me into staying alive, Alex.”

Alex wipes furiously at the tears cascading down her cheeks.

“Sure I can. If guilt is what it takes to make you stay then I’ll do it. I’d do anything to protect you.”

Kara sighs. She’s too tired for this. She’s too tired for anything.

“Promise me you won’t ever do anything like that again,” Alex continues, “please.”

Kara just stares into her desperate eyes for a long moment before rolling over, facing away.

“Goodnight, Alex,” she says instead.

* * *

  
Her next day is spent in a whirlwind of activity.

They run her through diagnostics, they give her the most thorough physical of her life. They examine her hearing, her eyesight, her pain response. They ask her cognitive questions that downright insult her intelligence. 

Every specialist she sees grates on her nerves more than the last.

They run her through dozens of tests, checklists upon checklists until she’s basically snapping her answers at them.

“No, I didn’t want to die. Yes, I’m irritable, how could I not be?”

They ask her to list traumatic life events she’s experienced or witnessed, and she has to laugh.

“How much time you got?” she asks with a crooked smile.  
  


* * *

  
By the end of her day she’s about at her wit’s end, but the latest doctor assured her the next appointment will be her last for the day. She feels anxious and fidgety. When the lead door keeping her in her exam room was last opened she could hear the sounds of conflict as the DEO fought another battle, without her. This is all ridiculous.

In that moment, the doctor arrives.

“Hello there,” the woman says, a kind smile on her face, “thank you for your patience. I know today has been a doozy for you.”

She places the thick packet she’d brought with her on the side table and sits across from Kara, her posture open and inviting. Kara is borderline furious.

“Would you like anything to drink before we start?” the woman asks, and Kara almost sneers.

“What I want is to leave. This is all such a waste of time. I should be out there helping people, not doing questionnaires.”

The woman nods at her words before saying,

“You feel frustrated by the cautions we’re taking with you because you don’t think you need them.”

“Yes! I’m fine, why won’t anyone believe that I’m fine?”

“Well, my job is to tell them when you’re fine. I’m here to finish your assessment and work with the rest of your team to decide what steps to take next. I know you’ve had a long day so far, but are you comfortable with talking to me for a bit about what’s been going on?”

Kara laughs in a defeated tone, shrugging helplessly.

“Something tells me I don’t have much of a choice.”

The woman looks at her thoughtfully before saying,

“Do you know how many therapists it takes to change a lightbulb?”

Kara gives her the most withering look, but she seems unaffected.

“Just one, but the lightbulb must be willing to change.” Kara doesn’t laugh, but the doctor laughs hard enough for the both of them. She continues,

“I can’t force you to do anything other than meet with me. I can’t make you believe what I’m telling you or make you do the things I advise. That’s your decision. You have to choose for yourself who you want to be - my job is to simply help you get there. And,” she gives Kara a pointed look, “to decide when you are fit to work again.”

They make meaningful eye contact. Kara gives in.

“Fine, let’s get this over with,” she says, slouching back into her seat.

The therapist smiles.  
  


* * *

  
“So can I say before we begin,” the therapist starts, “that I have always admired your work as Supergirl.”

And like a switch flip Kara is sitting straighter, firmer. This is familiar territory.

“Your motto, what is that? Hope, compassion-”

“Hope, help, and compassion for all,” Kara says. The therapist laughs joyously.

“That’s it! I’ve always really liked that. You basically wrote a mission statement for the counseling profession right there. I’ve joked to others that you were probably some sort of social worker in your real life.”

Kara just smiles dimly.

“Hope, help, and compassion for all. Amazing. So tell me, what does that actually mean?”

She’s still smiling at Kara, pleasant and open, and Kara’s just confused. After a few moments of silence the therapist speaks again.

“Kind of a big ask, I know. Maybe it’s better if we go through it by word. So, hope. What does that mean?”

“It’s - it means hope. It means to believe that things can be good even when it seems impossible. It’s what I provide for people when they feel lost.”

“So hope is that thing that makes people keep going even when they feel like there’s nothing worth going for,” the therapist adds helpfully. Kara nods. “That’s awesome. Supergirl is such a powerful image of hope, then. And so help? That means you helping others, then?”

“Yes, but it’s more than that. It’s believing that all people can care for each other, that we should take care of each other.”

The therapist nods, smiling minutely, then asks,

“And compassion?”

“It’s kindness,” Kara says, “It’s seeing people suffering or struggling and choosing to help them. It’s again about caring for each other. Forgiving each other. Being kind.”

“So it’s believing that there is still hope for a better tomorrow, it’s taking care of each other when we need it, and it’s being kind and empathic towards others, am I hearing that right?”

“Exactly.”

“And what do you mean when you say for all?”

Kara waits to see if there’s more to the question, but the therapist just keeps staring pleasantly. Finally she says,

“I mean for all. I mean everyone. I’m here to help everyone no matter who they are.”

“And what happens when you need help?”

“I have a support team, they always help me out.”  
  
“In combat, yes, but I’m talking about on an emotional level. What do you do when you feel hopeless and helpless?”

Kara’s neck feels hot all of a sudden and she shifts, fingers clenching. Like a tidal wave memories slam against her - her, trapped in a pod. Her, trapped watching her sister drown on a computer screen. Her, dangling over the edge of a building held loosely in the grip of a worldkiller. 

“I’m Supergirl,” she says, because she’s not sure what else can be said.  
  
“You’re also Kara,” the therapist responds. “ Does Kara not deserve that same love and care? Does ‘for all’ not also include her?”  
  
“I don’t know,” she says, after what feels like a long silence. She’s so tired. “I just want to go home.”  
  
The therapist nods and jots something down on her notepad.  
  
“I think that’s a good idea,” she says. “But I want to see you again in the morning.”  
  
Kara’s too exhausted to argue.   
  


* * *

  
Later, after the battle Kara missed has finally ended, Alex drives her home. She holds Kara’s hand in an iron grip the entire way without once making eye contact, her eyes instead jumping rapidly across the road as if looking for impending danger.

She sleeps on Kara’s couch fitfully, and Kara can hear her wake throughout the night.

Kara lays awake until dawn’s light creeps across her.  
  


* * *

“Good morning, Kara,” the therapist greets her. “How are you feeling today?”  
  
She wasn’t allowed to go on a mission this morning. She wasn’t allowed to go to CatCo, either. Apparently Alex talked to James behind her back and now she’s on sabbatical. Her eye twitches at the idea of it, stomach churning knowing her friends are talking about her, saying she’s too messed up to work. Like she’s helpless. 

“Not great,” she says. “I can’t do anything but talk to you, so I’m pretty frustrated.”

“What is it you’d rather be doing?”  
  
“I’d like to go to work, you know- my _ job. _ I have a job that you guys are keeping me from. And bad guys don’t stop just because I’m not out there; the city needs Supergirl.”

“I remember when you first saved that plane. That was only a few years ago. The city seemed to be functioning okay before, what’s changed since you’ve come out?”  
  
Kara gives her a look, then refuses to speak for a bit.

After a noticeable time of sitting in silence, the therapist says,

“I’m going to be honest with you, Kara, and I want you to know I’ll try to be as honest as I can every time we talk. I’m concerned that you are dealing with some serious mental health issues and might be at risk of harming yourself. I want to make sure you’re okay, but to do that I need you to work with me. Does that make sense?”

Kara nods.  
  
“I’m fine,” she says half-heartedly.  
  
“I want that to be the case, but I need to be confident it is before I can sign off on you returning to the field.”  
  
“Okay. Fine,” she picks at the seat cushion, pulling on a seam that had loosened. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s talk about you. I know you’re an alien who was raised human. Tell me what that was like for you.”

So she does.  
  
She talks about living as a human, how she’s had to limit herself constantly and stay hidden. She talks about being raised a Danvers, about the years of childish tension between her and Alex. She talks about coming to Earth to raise a baby only to find him already grown. A man who didn’t want to raise her himself, who passed her off to humans. She talks about her parents on Krypton, how their choices spared her and killed millions. Her voice increases in volume as she speaks, anger and frustration she hadn’t felt in ages rearing inside of her. All along her therapist sits quietly, no expression on her face beyond quiet receptiveness, waiting until she winds herself down to nothing. After a few moments of silence, she speaks.

“It sounds like you’ve had a lifetime of people making decisions for you and then leaving you to deal with the consequences,” she says, and something in Kara’s chest twinges at the words, makes her eyes water.  
  
“I,” she starts, not knowing how the sentence will end. “Yeah. I guess.”  
  
Just like that, the dam is broken. Kara finds herself talking about life before Supergirl, about how she felt when she saw Alex’s plane on fire. How scared she was when she tried to fly.  
  
“I thought I’d lost it, you know,” she says, waving her arms, “I thought I’d never be able to fly again after so long.”  
  
“We never fully lose what makes us who we are. Sometimes it just hides for a while,” the therapist replies.

So many years spent repressing and concealing and protecting had made her doubt who she used to be. Saving Alex that day brought her back.  
  
“That’s why I love being Supergirl. It lets me be my truest self, at least physically.”  
  
“And what self are you as Kara Danvers?”  
  
She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she says what she feels.

“Tired.”

Kara is very, very tired. 

* * *

  
Since the day she landed she’s been taught to tread softly, to be unexceptional, to seem meek even when she is strong. It was for her own safety - and the Danvers really did mean well - but it’s hard for a 13 year old to be taught “never be yourself fully” and not have that mess her up.  
  


* * *

The therapist starts the next session by running Kara through a series of scaled questions.

_ On a scale of 1 to 10, how often do you feel irritable or have fits of anger? _  
  
_ In the past three months, how many times have you had nightmares about past traumatic events? _  
_  
_Do you often have bouts of sleeplessness?

On and on they go until Kara feels like her eyes will roll into the back of her skull in annoyance until finally, finally - they stop. 

They stare at each other for a few beats quietly, and then the therapist speaks.

“I would like to talk to you about trauma today, if that’s okay.”

Kara shrugs, waves her hand dismissively. The therapist holds up a picture of a human brain and starts to talk about the different parts of the brain, how they all interact and connect, and Kara is quick to speak.

“I’m not human,” Kara cuts in. “This doesn’t apply to me._ Therapy _ doesn’t apply to me.”

The therapist just smiles accommodatingly.   
  
“I’ve been studying your charts and scans, and I have to say it really is fascinating. You match humans on a physiological level in almost every way. Same hands, same vocal cords, same brains. The only difference is your genetic reaction to our planet’s sun. You are, biologically speaking, identical to a human. Just an amplified version.”  
  
“Really?” She doesn’t know why her voice sounds so small.  
  
“Really. Which means your brain will likely react to trauma in the same way a human’s brain does.”

Kara lets herself sink back further into the seat and wraps her arms around herself defensively.

“Which is?” she asks, voice cracking slightly.  
  
“It depends. Some people experience a trauma and are fine within weeks, it just rolls off. Other times, however, the brain may go hyper alert and do whatever it can to protect itself. The brain isn’t ready to experience those levels of distress, so it will adapt itself so that it can handle it.  
  
“That in itself is not a bad thing. It is a normal reaction to an abnormal situation. Your brain does what it needs to do to make sure you survive. What gets bad, though, is after the traumatic incident ends. When you need to function normally, but your brain is still in panic mode. It rewired itself; it’s learned a way to operate and it doesn’t know how to stop it. This is why you might find yourself doing those things we discussed, like feeling bouts of anxiety or having panic attacks. You’re brain is stuck in fight or flight mode all the time.”  
  
Her hands have begun shaking noticeably, and she finds herself just staring at them. She can feel the sweat beading on her face.  
  
“I don’t want to be like that. What do I do?” she asks.

“What we can do, you and all of us here on your team, is help you work to rewire your brain and unlearn that trauma response. You’re not in that abnormal situation anymore. You shouldn’t live like you are.”  
  


* * *

  
That night, for most of the night, Kara can’t sleep. This is not unusual.

In the early hours she finally slips into a light slumber, though her dreams wake her quickly.

She stares at the ceiling until the sun rises, crying quietly the whole time.   
  


* * *

  
“What kind of thoughts do you have when you’re facing an enemy like Reign, when you think you are going to die but go anyway?”  
  
“I think that I’m doing what I’m meant to do.”  
  
“You’re meant to die?” 

“I’m meant to protect people.”  
  
“Where is the line between protection and self-sacrifice?”  
  


* * *

  
Krypton died, and sent its pieces into the universe.

It sent radioactive meteors crashing through Daxam, sent those meteors to Earth as poison to its orphaned children. It sent Reign, sent Astra and Non, sent Fort Rozz.   
  
It sent Kara.

A dead planet’s poisons blasted out into the universe.  
  


* * *

  
“How did you feel when you woke up again, after that fight?”  
  
“Tired.”

“Could you elaborate more on that?”  
  
“I’m just- tired. It’s the same thing, over and over. I fight, I win or get knocked out, I wake up again. Things keep going over and over and it doesn’t matter how hard I fight or how good I do, it’s never gonna end. Every time it gets close, I say goodbye, and then I’m waking up and doing it again. I’m so tired of saying goodbye. I try to finish but it never stops.”  
  


* * *

  
She thought being Supergirl would be freeing, that strength instead of feigned weakness would lift some of the burden off her soul. But she’s not genuine then either, not when all people see is her family’s shield and what they think it represents. Every word and action has to be carefully planned so that she can represent her family with honor. And now that they can benefit from it, those same people who for years tried to silence her have her at their beck and call. 

And performing a role at all times can be so terribly draining. Living in a constant state of emotional exhaustion can make it real hard to even want to keep going.

The truth, one constantly tickling at the back of her psyche despite her best efforts to ignore, is that Kara is a performer no matter the role. Kara Danvers, Supergirl - they’re all characters in a story she doesn’t get to write. Kara doesn’t feel like a person most of the time. She’s tired of these roles, has been for a while.   
  
She tried living as just Kara Danvers and forgot how to fly.  
  
She tried living as just Supergirl and almost lost everything. 

“I just want to lie down and never get back up. Why do I always have to get back up?”  
  
She’s tired of trying to live.  
  


* * *

  
On the fourth day, she goes back to Catco.  
  
They can stop her from working with the DEO, but outside of house arrest they really can’t stop her from going to work, and if she has to spend another day stuck in the DEO getting psychoanalyzed she’s gonna scream at someone.

The boiler room is buzzing when she arrives, everyone chattering away on the hottest news of the week, which is, much to her horror, _her._  
  


* * *

  
“Supergirl’s been missing for four days now. No one has seen her since that video accused her of being suicidal.”  
  
“Is she dead? What if she’s dead?”  
  
“She’s not dead. We’d know if she was.”  
  
“No, we wouldn’t, they could hide that.”  
  
“They probably threw her in a psych ward.”

“Do they have alien psych wards?” 

“No, I think that’s just jail.”  
  


* * *

  
What should have been her escape from the stress is just an amplification of it, worsened by the candidness of people who don’t think the person they’re discussing can hear them. People say all sorts of things when they don’t foresee consequences.   
  


* * *

“This is just like that time she went crazy and attacked Cat Grant. She’s too much. I hope she stays gone.”

* * *

  
Needless to say, her first day back is rough. The same people gossiping about Supergirl are quick to offer her support.

“You missed so much when you were sick!” they say, “Are you feeling better?”  
  
“I’m getting there,” she says with a forced smile.

James hovers over her protectively and she feels like she might crawl out of her own skin. 

Everything is too much.  
  


* * *

  
She texts Lena for lunch. 

Lena takes a long time to respond. She’s been doing that for some time now, being slow and distant. Kara can scroll through her messages and see how many times her texts went unanswered, how many hours there would be between responses. She hadn’t noticed that fully, hadn’t realized how long it’d been going on. Since red daughter, really. Since Lex.

Kara’s jaw aches from clenching. How much of her life has she been missing? How many signs has she ignored?

She only relaxes when, after ages, Lena responds with a simple _‘ok’._  
  


* * *

  
They meet. Lena looks uncomfortable, twitchy. She grips Kara tight when they hug. They have never been this awkward in all their friendship.

“How are you?” Lena asks, and there is a layer of concern in her voice that unsettles Kara. It’s only been a week since they’d last spoken, there’s no reason for her to be looking at her with such wide eyes.  
  
“I’m- I’m good,” she says, hearing the lie in her voice. “Surviving.”  
  
“Are you?” Lena asks sharply, then seems to school herself like she’d said too much. Her hand shakes as she takes a sip from her drink. She clears her throat, shakes her head. 

Kara’s eyes start to mist with unshed tears.  
  
“You know,” Lena says, in a tone that sends chills down Kara’s arms, “I saw that video that’s been going around. About Supergirl.”  
  
A tear breaks the water line then, and slowly falls down Kara’s face. Lena reaches for her hand, then flinches away, hesitant to touch. Then, decidedly, she rests it atop Kara’s.  
  
“So again,” Lena says in a trembling voice, “How are you?”

And all Kara can do in that moment is cry.  
  


* * *

  
They have game night, like usual.

It was her therapist’s idea. Kara wanted to cancel and Alex wanted to lock Kara in a padded cell, but the therapist said community and normalcy are vital parts of healing.

Self-care is charades and Settlers of Catan, apparently. 

To say everyone is terrible at playing it cool would be an understatement. It’s almost funny to see all these people she loves try and fail to act casual around her. James keeps laughing too loudly, his voice booming out like he’s compensating for feeling small. Alex still won’t look her in the eyes even all these days later. Kelly is the only one who treats her normally, thankfully. 

Lena isn’t there. It hurts. 

She was supportive of Kara, when they talked, or at least supportive of her mental health. But there is so much space between them now, so much pain and betrayal they haven’t even begun to process, and she just can’t do this. Not right now. Not yet.

Kara understands. She doesn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with the mess she’s made in that regard. She is just happy Lena is speaking to her at all. 

That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Soon Brainy and Nia arrive and Kara thinks for a moment things might be normal.

“Hello, Kara Zor-el,” Brainy says, “I am pleased to see your suicide attempts were unsuccessful.” Nia elbows him hard.

“Uhh, what he meant to say is that we're all really glad to see you, Kara,” Nia says, looking at her with too soft of an expression. They all are, looking at her like she’s a fragile flower seconds from wilting.

No one else mentions it that night and Kara isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing. 

She does win every game they play by a landslide, though, so there is that.   
  


* * *

  
“Tell me about a time when you felt hopeless,” the therapist says, and Kara starts to cry.

Her mind flashed through decades of isolated darkness, through years of struggling to fit in in a world of aliens. Through fights and flights and battles that bleed into wars that never end. Through every haggard breath and scarless wound.   
  
“I always feel it,” she confesses, finally, words soft off trembling lips. “I work so hard to make sure no one can tell, but- I’m always hopeless.”  
  
The walls are falling now, tumbling inward in this quiet room with this soft-smiling stranger. She’s crying. When did she start crying?

“I’m just so tired. I’m just,” she wipes sloppily at her eyes. “I’m just tired. I don’t want to do this anymore.”  
  


* * *

  
Sometimes Kara feels like she’s still in that tiny metal box hurtling through space, that maybe her air supply is leaking and this is all just a fever dream as she slowly fades into the void. She can feel the coldness of space pressing inward in those moments, feel the pressure on her heart. She’s gotten better at breathing through the panic over the years but it never fully passes. Still, a part of her likes the panic - that heart racing pressure may hurt, yes, but at least in that moment she can really feel alive. Existence is painful, but the pain reminds her she’s still here. That’s more than her people get. Maybe living in discomfort is the price she pays.  
  


* * *

  
They talk, Kara cries, Kara sleeps, they repeat again.  
  
Days into days until it’s been a full two weeks of her in therapy every single day.

She finds that sleepless nights are so much harder when you’re actively aware of them. The burning is so much more real when you know how to see the flames. Knowing that the panic, the sudden anger, the trembling are all manifestations of a stuck brain - it’s hard to ignore anymore.

“So what if you’re right,” Kara says grudgingly, finally, after crying herself into a corner at their next session, “and there is something wrong with me. What am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to fix myself after everything I’ve been through?”

Her therapist smiles that same soft, open smile.  
  
“Just saying that, just expressing an awareness and desire to change, is a big first step. Recognizing that there is something wrong and that you need to do something to fix it is such a difficult thing. Most people spend their whole lives living in their own dysfunction, because that familiar pain feels easier than an uncomfortable unknown. It takes courage to try, and if you’re open, then I’d say now is where the real work begins. Now we all work together to make the weight you carry feel a whole lot lighter.”  
  
“What if I can’t do that?” she finally voices the fear that’s haunted her since this process began.  
  
“The first thing you have to do is believe that you can. That’s what makes everything possible. You already know your first step here, Kara - it’s hope. You have to have hope that you can - and will - get better. Do you believe that?”

And somehow, despite it all, Kara does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For additional resources, go [here](https://karalovesallthegirls.tumblr.com/help).


	2. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kara gets some help.

Kara is trying to do good.

She really is, but trying to do something and actually achieving it are not the same. 

Positive change requires work and time, which are, of course, the two most dreadful things to ask of someone. 

The work part Kara can deal with - she’s no stranger to hard work. She’s lifted entire buildings, pressed two-ton spaceships back into the atmosphere. She can do what needs to be done.

It’s the time that gets her. There’s no knocking this out over a weekend, no quick fixes for mental stability. It happens slowly, over days and weeks and months, and until she reaches that idealized other side she gets to just… deal with it. Sit in the discomfort and try to move.

* * *

  
“I hate this,” she groans into her hands as her stupid therapist looks on with that same stupid smile. “It’s like everything feels so much worse now.”

“Elaborate on that.”

Kara pulls her legs up to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. Glares at her therapist.

“Before, I didn’t know how sad I was, I just was. Now you made me all aware of it and it’s all I can think about! I’m like triple sad now!”

“Sometimes things will feel worse before they feel better.”

“Great, thanks. Real comforting.”

“Why don’t we talk about some of the ways it’s harder now.”

So she does.

* * *

  
Alex keeps staying over, for one thing.

Everyday like clockwork, she drives Kara to CatCo for the four hours of work she’s doing. James is still hesitant to put her back out there, despite her protests. By lunch, Alex is picking her up and driving her to the DEO for her “treatment”, which so far has just been talking to a therapist and feeling angry. Later in the night, Alex drives her home and sleeps on her couch. Every single day, she’s there.

Watchful and alert, like she’s scared that if she leaves Kara unmonitored for even a moment she might disappear. Kara knows she isn’t sleeping; she can hear her restless pacing at night while she also doesn’t sleep.

Whenever Alex sees her girlfriend, it’s only because Kelly’s bringing over food for them to eat or spare clothes for Alex. Kara’s pretty sure Alex hasn’t gone back to her apartment since this all began.

Kara is pretty sure she hasn’t had a moment alone in days and she feels like she might crawl out of her skin.

* * *

  
“So it sounds like you’re feeling trapped by your sister’s constant attention?” the therapist states, earning a nod from Kara.

“She’s smothering me. I feel like we’ve spent more time together since all this started than we did as kids. I can’t breathe.”

“What ways have you used to express that to her?”

“I tried telling her to hang out with friends, but she ended up just bringing them to my house. I feel like we’re having game nights every single day!”

“Healing does happens in community,” her therapist says, like an asshole. Kara kind of hates her therapist.

“Well, I’d like it if community could happen somewhere other than my living room every night.”

“And what ways have you communicated that to Alex?”

“I mean... I’ve made it pretty clear. I keep telling her to take Kelly out or to go to the bar but she absolutely refuses. I’ve been giving her some serious looks and she’s just not getting it.”

“Have you considered using your words to express this to her? Sometimes, change only happens if you start the process.”

This earns her therapist a serious look of her own.

Yeah, okay. Kara really hates her therapist.

* * *

  
Work is another struggle now.

Work is just CatCo at this point, as they still won’t let her go out as Supergirl again. She’s not sure she wants to right now, not until this viral video dies down, which it doesn’t seem like it will any time soon.

“I’m pretty sure she’s dead,” her coworker is saying. It’s all anyone will talk about anymore. It’s been the front page of every news site since it first began. Even CatCo’s. “Like, if she wasn’t dead we’d have seen her by now, right?”

“No, I’m telling you, they locked her up,” another one is saying. “It wouldn’t be safe for a crazy alien to be running around by herself.”

Maybe it’s the way she said it, or the fact that it’s all anyone has said to her since she came back. Or maybe it’s just that she’s so tired of having it shoved constantly in her face. Whatever it is, Kara finds herself reacting for the first time.

“She’s not-” Kara nearly shouts with a slam of her fist on the table. She surprises them and herself. She continues in a quieter voice, “Crazy. She’s not crazy.”

She crosses her arms tight, adjusts in her seat in obvious discomfort. “She’s just sad. She’s tired of fighting all the time.”

They all stare at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. 

“Wouldn’t you be?” she says, finally.

She doesn’t wait around for their answer.

* * *

  
Cat Grant texts her at 3 in the morning. Apparently she’s been negotiating top security deals with foreign ambassadors, or something, and she only just caught word of the news. Her text is simple and clear:

_ If you need anything, let me know. I’ll make it happen. _

And of course she knows. She’s Cat Grant.

_ Can I call you? _ Kara texts back. To her surprise, her phone starts ringing almost immediately.

“Hi,” she says, and her voice is already watery with unrealized tears.

“Hello, Kara,” - and it’s only been a few months since she’s heard that voice but it feels like years and the absolute rush of relief and comfort that hits her causes those captive tears to fall - “I’ve been worried about you.”

Kara laughs instinctively, swipes at her runny nose. 

“I’ve been worried about me, too, I think,” she whispers. “I think I’ve maybe been worried for a while and just didn’t realize it.”

Cat hums softly in response. They sit for a few moments like that, silent apart from the occasional sniffle from Kara, until Cat breaks the silence.

“Would you like to talk about it?”  
  
Kara laughs a snotty laugh, wipes her face.

“Ugh, no. I’m so tired of talking about it. All anyone ever wants to do anymore is talk about it. Can we talk about something else? Tell me what’s going on with you.”

And she does.

* * *

  
Sometimes, on the days that are especially sad, Kara will feel a pressure on her chest. A phantom grip locking in, stabbing long tendrils into her ribs and heart. Familiar and comforting in its own horrible way. A Black Mercy that never seemed to really ever let her go. She remembers the world she had woken up in, where Krypton lived. Where Kal grew alongside her, where she was allowed to be a child that much longer.

The thought of it existing, even if only in fantasy, still brings her comfort.

* * *

  
The DEO issues a public statement at her request. They state that Supergirl is alive and safe, that she is being treated by the top mental health care providers available. As soon as she’s feeling better, they assure, she will come back. 

The local children’s hospital sends the agency a dozen handmade cards from their young patients, all wishing her well.

She cries for hours after that.

* * *

  
Her therapist always wants to know things about her, which makes sense, she guesses, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

“Tell me a little about your childhood,” she asks, like that question is not a bomb just waiting to go off.

“What about it?” she asks wearily. Her therapist smiles.

“Whatever you’d like.”

At first, she talks about Earth only. It’s instinctual; even though she knows the therapist knows, her first thought is always to play human. 

She talks about Alex and how much she hated her for so many years.

How hard human customs were, how foreign everything felt. 

She talks about Kenny, briefly, though she can’t bring herself to linger. The therapist doesn’t press her on him.

In fact, her therapist isn’t pressing her on anything she’s saying. Just asking basic, get-to-know-you things. When her therapist asks how good of a student she was she has to stop herself from huffing in exacerbation. She’s missing work, she’s basically on suicide watch, and all this therapist wants to talk about is how her eighth grade teacher upset her.

It must be exhaustion, or the late hour, or the watercolor get well cards she has been crying over for hours - whatever it is, something makes Kara snap. 

“Aren’t we supposed to be getting into the real problems here?” she finally asks, agitated.

“Well, what are the real problems?” the therapist asks in return.

“I don’t know! Maybe how apparently I kind of want to die! All the time! And how I don’t know how to stop it! Or how no matter what I do, I’m always gonna be alone in this because I’m the only person on this entire planet carrying this weight!”

She was yelling. She didn’t mean to yell, didn’t remember starting, but once she started there was nothing she could do to slow it down. Her therapist watches her with that same open expression, just patiently waiting for her to stop. Then, once she’d let out that last huffing breath, the therapist says,

“Tell me more about that, then.”

* * *

Healing takes time.

* * *

It’s hard to love the Earth. This planet was not her first choice, not a choice at all. It was a desperate, final hour lifeline. A barely there chance at a longer life. From the moment she entered that pod, she knew she was taking on a burden far greater than anyone should. 

For Kal, she could do it.

For the House of El.

Only she arrived, and it wasn’t a backwater cesspool of a place. It was filled with people who looked and sounded like her, who made jokes and danced and loved. She was powerful, yes, but she didn’t feel it. She felt small, and hopeless, and alone. And the Danvers saw that, and they worked so, so hard to take that pain away.

She lost her childhood innocence, and she gained Alex, gained a family. She gained friends and days in the sunshine, desserts with flavors she’d never have tasted and animals that were long extinct before Kryptonians were, and all she can wonder is how.

How do you reconcile your loss with a deep love you’d never have known without it? Is she allowed to live and love on Earth knowing what it cost?

What do you do, when your heart loves something it shouldn’t? How do you stand on safe ground without dishonoring the dead burning behind you?

* * *

  
She talks about the speech she gave what feels like decades ago. When she first found herself on the brink, when she was still getting her feet wet as a hero.

Myriad took over her city, nearly took everything away from her, and she gave a speech that helped rally her adopted people.

“Now, in each and every one of you,” she said, voice broadcasting across the masses, “there is a light, a spirit, that cannot be snuffed out. That won’t give up.”

Her words worked, apparently. The people of National City broke free, and in the end they won.   
  
They listen to a recording of her speech in session. It’s hard; it feels like a different life.

“What do you do when you don’t believe your own words?” she finally says, quiet. “What do you do if your light feels snuffed out?” 

Like always, her therapist smiles, soft and assured.

“We find a way to light it again.”

* * *

  
She sticks a post-it note over her mirror that says “Keep Going” and immediately feels stupid for it. She rips it off after a few minutes and throws it away.

Later, she plucks it out of the trash and slaps it back up.  
  
So silly.

* * *

  
Her therapist makes her start a journal.

Not one to share or anything, just a place for her to write about the process she’s going through. 

For a professional writer, it’s a surprisingly difficult ask.

She writes it in half English, half Kryptonese, partially to match the way her thoughts tend to process and partially because there are words she needs that they don’t equally have. Feelings, talks of love, grief - these are human concepts. Kryptonians are logic and reason, and depression knows neither. 

That’s what she has, apparently.

Depression.

After the tests, all those scales and checklists they ran her through for hours, they confirmed it - chronic depression with a hearty helping of post traumatic stress. The sadness inside of her has altered the brain chemistry, has made it so even when she is alone she is alert, even when she rests she feels at war. Her inner self fears the pain she’s experienced so deeply that it’s dedicated its entire functioning to never experiencing that again, no matter the cost.

There is no word in Kryptonese for that. 

* * *

  
“I’d like to touch on something we discussed earlier,” her therapist says, “about your sister.”

“What? How she’s trying to smother me to death?”

Her therapist smiles, shakes her head.

“No, although we can definitely come back to that. It sounds like, even though she is ‘smothering you to death’, losing her is always a fear for you, too, and one you have to confront a lot.”

The smile drops from Kara’s face pretty fast at that.

“I mean, I guess,” she says, holding her crossed arms tight to her chest, “I wouldn’t say a lot.”

Her therapist flips through her notes.

“You became Supergirl originally to save her from dying, right? And you had to fight her once when she was-“ the therapist adjusts her glasses to ensure she’s reading it right, “mind controlled by your evil uncle. Once, you had to watch her come very close to drowning on a livestream.” She flips through more of her notes. “Not to mention when she almost got lost in space, or, oh, how recently she had her memory of Supergirl erased.”

By the end of her spiel Kara had sunk almost entirely back into her seat, practically tearing into the back lining with her pull to get away.

“Yeah, okay, maybe that’s a lot, but everything was okay in the end. All the bad things had good endings.”

“Things don’t just end when the battle’s over,” her therapist says. “The war keeps going - just in your mind, sometimes. Near death situations are traumatic, and it sounds like she’s had a lot of them.”

“She’s dating a therapist now so she’ll probably be fine.”

This gets a laugh from her therapist.

“That’s… good, but I’m not just talking about her. Almost losing your sister is pretty traumatizing for you and it’s happened a lot. What ways have you felt those experiences lingering?”

She thinks about Alex, burning in a plane. Alex, trapped on a ship blasting into space. Alex, drowning --

In a stalker’s trap, in a bottle of rum. 

In her own shame.

“I can’t think of any,” she says. Her teeth hurt in the lie.

* * *

  
They make a safety plan.

She says she’s fine, that she doesn’t need it, but her therapist insists that times when you’re fine are exactly when to make plans. So, she does what she’s told.

She writes a list of her warning signs: consistent agitation, self-isolation. Sleeplessness. Deep sadness.

She writes what things she can do to cope: she can grief bake, she can do karaoke. She can go to the alien bar and spend time with friends. She can see Lena (she crosses that off as soon as she writes it. She might not be allowed to see Lena anymore)

She writes the names and contact numbers of people she knows she can reach out to if she’s struggling. Alex. J’onn. James, Nia and Brainy. Lena again, marked out again. 

She writes places she can go for a distraction: Newnan’s, the alien bar. (Lena’s balcony). The fortress of solitude.

The plan asks “what makes life worth living?” And leaves her with a blank to fill.

* * *

  
Alex stays the night again.

They watch one of those terrible movies that comes on Lifetime late at night. They sit far apart on opposite ends of the couch, neither paying attention. As it has been since this all began, conversation is awkward.

She can see Alex get a text that she quickly swipes away. Something inside her snaps.

“What was that?” Kara asks. Alex shifts uncomfortably and doesn’t look away from the television.

“Just Kelly checking in.”

“She probably misses you,” Kara says, and thinks _ communication _. “You can go see her, you know. I’ll be fine for a night.”

“No, it’s fine, Kara,” Alex says gruffly, getting up from the couch in a hurry. 

Communication, she thinks, and snaps, 

“Can you at least look at me while you suffocate me?”

Finally,_ finally, _ Alex looks at her.

“What are you talking about?”  
  
Kara grabs the remote and turns the movie off, turns to face her. This is happening, she decides.

“Please don’t pretend like you haven’t gone the entire week without looking me in the eyes once,” she says.

“Kara, I’m not-” she looks at Kara briefly, then looks away, “that’s not what is happening.”

“You can’t even do it now! Just _ look _ at me, Alex! Are you really that disgusted?”

Her voice catches as the words she’d tried so hard to keep in spill out.

“What?” Alex asks in horror, finally staring in her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

But Kara can’t answer, not now that it’s out there, she can’t do anything but sob into her hands. 

“You think I’m weak,” she’s crying, words slurring, “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Alex.”

“Kara, hey,” she moves close then, pulls her sister into her arms. “Listen to me. That is not at all what’s going on. You are_ not _weak, okay?”

“Then what is it? What did I do?”

“It’s not you, Kara. It’s me! It’s because I don’t know how to look at you when I’ve failed you,” Alex says miserably. “I was supposed to protect you, I was supposed to keep you safe.”

Alex is crying now. Kara’s chest feels like it may burst.  
  
“It’s not like that,” Kara says, hugging her tightly. “This isn’t something you could have changed.”

“I’m supposed to protect you,” Alex is inconsolable, her face buried in Kara’s shirt. “How did I not see it?”  
  
“I didn’t see it, either. Why would you have?”

They fall asleep in each other’s arms, a tangled pile of limbs holding tight.

* * *

  
She tells her therapist about their conversation.

They have a family counseling session booked the next day.

It takes some finagling and minor trickery to get Alex to come (she might have told her they were having lunch together lest she try to flee) but somehow, the two of them end up sitting in a room together with - a total stranger.

“Who are you?” she asks, incredulous, “you’re not my therapist.”

The new woman smiles and tells her that it’s better to keep individual counseling separate from group, but that she is working with Kara’s primary therapist to ensure continuity of care. It throws her off a bit, but that seems to make Alex feel better in a way.

They’re both on equal footing here.

“So,” the new counselor says, “who would like to start?”

* * *

  
It’s rough.

She didn’t anticipate how rough it could be, talking about their relationship with a stranger mediating. They each talk about what it was like growing up separate then together, what it was like sharing this secret that has defined their lives.   
  
“Well, I mean,” Alex cuts in, “I wouldn’t say her secret has defined my life. I do have a life outside of Supergirl.”

Kara scoffs a bit while readjusting in her seat, then looks up to notice Alex and the counselor staring at her. Alex raises her eyebrows questioningly, and Kara backpedals instantly.  
  
“No, I agree, you absolutely do! You have a lot going on!”

“I’m hearing the words you both are saying, but I’m sensing some tension between you. Is this an area you’ve had issues in before?”  
  
They remembered then, in their silent tension, the terrible conversation they had many years ago when Kara’s veins flowed with red kryptonite and her words with hatred. The issues they acknowledged, but never addressed. Never had time to process.  
  
“You could say that,” Alex says, with tears in her eyes.

There are a lot of tears, that first session.

It doesn’t feel like progress is made, but something has certainly changed.  
  
They still go home together.

* * *

  
She wakes up in the middle of the night to Alex moving in her kitchen.

“I’m making hot cocoa, if you want any,” Alex says in a low voice that Kara of course hears. She drags the comforter with her, wrapping it around her and sipping at her drink while Alex builds up to whatever she needs to say.

“I think I’m probably gonna head home tomorrow,” Alex says, decisive. “Your couch is just not comfortable and I’m kind of sick of listening to you snore all night.”  
  
“I do not snore_, you_ snore!” Kara replies, smiling, “and I think that’s a good idea. Thank you.”  
  
“Mmm.”

The marshmallows in her drink melt together, pressing against her nose every time she takes a sip.

“There’s a lot of.. Junk… between us, isn’t there?” she finally asks. Alex laughs and shakes her head. She pulls out a tiny flask and dumps the contents into her drink. Kara pretends not to notice.  
  
“Looks like it. I thought we already figured that out, but apparently not.”  
  
“I don’t think talking about something once and then never mentioning it again counts as figuring it out.”  
  
Alex shrugs.

“That’s news to me,” she takes a drag straight from her flask. “Speaking of, have you talked to Lena recently?”

“No. I can’t.” When Alex gives her a look, she adds, “She knows. About Supergirl. I didn’t tell her.”

Surprisingly, Alex seems unsurprised.

“Yeah I know,” she says.

“Uh. How do _you_ know?”

“I called to see if she’d come to dinner to cheer you up and she gave me a very professional rejection, wishing Supergirl all the best in her recovery.”

Kara laughs with a sob in her throat.

“Yup.” the tears are flowing now, “She’s never gonna forgive me. Maybe she shouldn’t.”

“Kara, hey-”

“Maybe I don’t deserve forgiveness.”

Alex takes another drag from her flask, gulps it down.  
  
“Do any of us?” she asks.

They finish their drinks in quiet contemplation.

* * *

  
They make her write a lot. You’d think she’d be good at it, considering her career, but it’s much easier to write about the outside world than to write about your interior one. She writes the journal, mostly, and letters to everyone she’ll never send.

She writes to her parents, tells them how sorry she is for everything they lost, how furious she is for the choices they made. How she balances a rope between hatred and love knowing the pain they helped cause. 

She writes to Kal-el’s parents, begging their forgiveness for not being there in time to raise him. Condemning them for putting their child in a child’s care. 

Hours and hours are spent writing.

* * *

  
“So,” her therapist says one day during a lull in conversation, “I heard there was once a religion built around you.”

Kara feels herself sink deeper into her seat with a groan. Her therapist smiles, says,

“How did that feel? Having all these people worship you?”

“Terrible. They thought I was some holy figure sent here to save them.”

“They thought you were destined to be Earth’s savior,” the therapist adds, and Kara scoffs.

“It’s not destiny. It wasn’t fate. Sometimes bad things happen and there’s no greater meaning behind it. My parents were selfish and everyone died but me, and then I came here. It was chance.”

“That’s what makes it so powerful though, right? You weren’t destined to be Supergirl. You just happened to end up here, and you still chose to do good.”

“Kal made the choice first. I am following in his footsteps.”

“Doing it first isn’t what makes it matter. Doing it at all is what matters. You are here, now, in this moment, dealing with so much trauma bearing down on you, and every day you are presented with a choice to make. And despite every horrid thing you’ve endured, every single day you make that choice to do good. To be a light. That is what makes you a hero. That is what matters.”  
  
“What if I’m not doing enough to make it worth it?” she asks, miserably.  
  
“Make what worth it?”

“Do you know who Bar-al was?” Kara asks instead of answering. “No, you wouldn’t. He was a scientist, probably the smartest on my planet. He helped end a century long illness that had taken the lives of thousands. He died with Krypton. If he’d been put in my pod, he would probably have cured human cancer. Instead, I got saved. And for what?”

Her therapist turns the page in her notebook and clicks her pen.  
  
“Let’s talk about for what.”

* * *

  
Nia and Brainy come over to watch a movie, carrying an unreasonable amount of candy, the fluffiest blanket Kara has ever felt in her life, and -

“A mix tape?” Kara asks, staring at it in confusion. It’s a CD in a handmade paper case with a hand-drawn cover of a smiling Supergirl standing in front of a rainbow. The title ‘Sweet Sounds of Serotonin’ is written across the top.

“Yeah! It’s for you! The songs aren’t really great, lyric-wise, but they’re all about the vibe,” Nia says as explanation.

“The vibe?” 

Nia nods and replies,

“The sweet sounds of serotonin vibe.”

Brainy takes the chance to clarify, adding, 

“Research indicates that melodic auditory stimulation can increase the release of the neurotransmitters dopamine and serotonin, which both act as mood enhancers. Nia Nal has prepared a playlist that she believes will maximize those… vibes.”

“Bingo,” Nia says, pointing at him. “I dance along to this when I get ready in the morning and boom, my day is always a little better. I figured maybe it could help you as well.”

She doesn’t know why it hits her so hard, just receiving this mixtape, but she finds herself holding it tight to her chest.

They listen to it later that night. The songs are poppy and upbeat with simple lyrics about how today will be a good day, how everything gets better all the time, how good it is to be alive.

Nia was right; they’re not great songs. But the beat has her swaying in time, and the stick figure Supergirl on the cover makes her feel warm. Nia grabs her hands and makes her dance, and the two of them end up wrapped around an uncomfortable Brainy while they dance the night away.

She falls asleep with a smile on her face and the CD case still in her hand.

* * *

  
She tells her therapist about the CD the next day. It should be a small thing, she knows, but something about it has touched her. Her therapist agrees.  
  
“It’s a good feeling, when people do nice things for you.”  
  
“Yeah,” she says with a laugh, “it is. I don’t know, Brainy said stuff about it helping me feel better, stimulate my brain cells or whatever.”  
  
“He’s not wrong. Listening to music you like can certainly help lift your mood. I think listening to that every day could help.”

Kara laughs in disbelief, shrugs.  
  
“Sure, if you say so.”

* * *

  
Someone is shot during a bank robbery.

They survive, but Kara wasn’t there.

It happened and Kara didn’t stop it.

* * *

  
“You seem antsy,” her therapist observes.

“I’m just ready to get back out there. So much is happening and I’m just in here talking about myself.

“It sounds like you feel responsible for everything that happens out there, good or bad.”

“If I can stop the bad thing and I choose not to, am I not helping the bad thing?”

“Have you always felt this responsible?”

“I don’t know. I was responsible for Kal-El, and I failed. I was responsible for all of the embarrassment Alex felt when we were kids, and for her dad being taken away. For her career path. I’m responsible to this city and every person in it. How can I not be?”

* * *

Healing takes its time.

* * *

  
James stays the night. They sit on the floor in front of her couch and talk late into the darkness. He talks about how it felt, being shot. Having powers. Being forced to process his traumas in a very literal, public way.

“At least you get some control in this,” he says, nudging her shoulder.   
  
“It doesn’t feel like it,” she says in return.  
  
They sit in the thought for a moment before he takes a breath and amends.  
  
“At least you’re not alone. Or you don’t have to be. You have us,” he says definitively, “Stronger together, right?”  
  
They fall asleep together, her head propped against his shoulder.

* * *

  
It’s harder than she expects, talking about Clark. Kal-El.

It’s especially hard when talking to her therapist, who seems to perceive the feelings behind the words that she’d rather stay hidden. Who finds ways to pull them out of her.

“I just remember laying in our bedroom and thinking about how my one purpose for surviving was over. Kal grew up without me. He didn’t need me; he didn’t even want me. And all I could think was ‘well, at least I can stop now.’ and it was such a heavy thought… and it just, it never really went away.”

She wipes her tears, breathes deep.

“For years, I would wake up screaming ‘where’s the baby?’ and Alex or Eliza would come rushing in to comfort me. They would say ‘it’s just a dream, there’s no baby. There’s no baby.’ It was meant to comfort me. It… didn’t.”

“Sometimes I wake up and I look for the baby. Kal-El. I knew him as a baby and then as an adult, but sometimes it’s like I can’t connect the two. I feel like I’m still trying to find his pod even after all these years. I’m always looking for a future that will never come.”

* * *

The sadness doesn’t go away just because you acknowledge it 

* * *

  
They host a game night at Alex’s apartment, which is nice. Kara’s getting tired of staying home. They play the playlist Nia made for her and they all end up dancing around the apartment, singing loud enough for the neighbors to yell.

Things are still weird, but less so. People are adjusting to the new reality they all find themselves in. They don’t tiptoe as much around Kara, which is nice.  
  
She loses more than a few rounds, though. Every progress has its setbacks.

* * *

  
“What have things been like with your other family members - your mother, she’s still alive, yes? How has that experience been?”

_ How has it been, knowing the world you watched burn kept living in its own way without you.  
_ _  
_ _ How does it feel to know her peers grew up, lived among their fellow Kryptonians, while she stayed frozen in space hurtling towards an unknown. _

_ How does it feel to still see your mother’s dying face when you close your eyes, all while knowing she lives? _

“It’s nice,” she says with a sad smile.

* * *

  
“I want us to tell a story today,” her therapist says.

“Okay.”

“You’re going to write it, and I can help if you need it. I want you to write the story of Kara.”

“Which story? Kara the human or Kara the hero?”

“They’re all the same story.”

They write it out together, a story outline of Kara. They write of survival and strength, of sadness and hope. The parts she doesn’t like they find new places for - her defeats aren’t defeats, they’re stepping stones. Her darkness a chance to find the light.  
  
“This is your story, Kara,” her therapist reiterates as they look down at the pieces of her life. “You are the author. You decide what it means.”

* * *

  
A new post-it joins her first on her bathroom mirror_: You got this. _

She taps it every morning when she leaves.

* * *

  
They talk about coping skills. Apparently, she doesn’t have any good ones.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” her therapist argues with a smile, “you’ve developed exactly the coping skills you’ve needed to survive. The issue is that you don’t need them anymore. You endured the most devastating thing a child can experience, and you’ve lived your entire life in a world that constantly, in every way, reminds you of it. You had to learn to survive, and there is no shame in that. But those skills you learned, they’re only meant to survive the crisis. You can’t live your life in that state, Kara, and those little coping mechanisms you’ve learned just weren’t designed to last. You have to let them go. “  
  
“Sounds horrible,” Kara says. “Where do we start?”

* * *

  
They talk about mindfulness.

“It’s easy to get lost in yourself,” her therapist explains, “to spiral in your own memories and anxieties. What we want to do is find ways to keep you in the present moment, not back in your traumas.”  
  
They do mindfulness exercises.

“What do you hear?”

It’s difficult when she hears so much, so much of the time.

“Focus. Describe things you can feel.”  
  
_I feel everything_, she thinks, then says, “I feel my clothes around me. I feel the air blowing on my face.”  
  
“Press a hand to your chest and focus on the sadness. Allow yourself to really feel it.”  
  
She does, pressing hard against herself, against the pain. 

Her therapist guides her through the steps - she takes a deep breath. 

She exhales slowly.

She says, “This is pain. This is part of living. May I give myself the compassion I need.”

She feels a bit silly, after that. She feels a bit better as well.

* * *

  
“I’m tired.”

“You say that a lot, but I’m wondering if you can expand on that. What do you mean?”

“It feels like I’m in this pit just sitting in mud. And way up above me I can see the light, but the walls of this pit are lined with jagged rocks and gravel and I know it’ll take a lot of painful effort to climb my way up. I know I can do it, but I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

“Deciding to be better is one of the hardest parts, because it forces you to really look at how much shit you have to slog through before you can get there. When you’re in the mud it hurts, but it’s a familiar pain. You don’t have to do anything new. When you decide it’s time to climb out, though, you can see how much effort you’re going to have to put in and all the new ways you’ll have to hurt to get there, and it’s terrifying.”  
  
"Yeah," she says, "that sounds exhausting."  
  
"It is."  
  
"I still gotta do it, though, don't I?" she asks, groaning at the apologetic smile she gets in response.

* * *

  
Kara listens to her playlist every day. She listens in the morning when she gets dressed, listens through headphones at work, listens when she’s headed to her therapy. Even on the days when she’d rather sit in her silence, she listens.

The sadness remains.

They bring a specialist from some long dead planet. He was a great healer there. He now works as a cashier at a retail store, but J’onn was able to track him down and bring him in.

“There are things we can try,” he says, with no guarantees.

He gives her little tablets that glow purple and burn her throat. She doesn’t feel anything for days, then she feels too much.

She finds herself teetering on her feet. Everything is off balance and wonky. Two crashes through concrete floors gets her a new script for something else - this time square and white and chalky. It makes her eyes ache, but the spinning stops. It does nothing to the sadness.

* * *

  
She’s on her fourth medication now and it’s become a living nightmare. This one drips down her insides like a gel, slowing her thoughts and movements and words until she’s slurring through every breath. The world slows down for her and blurs.

“So we try again,” the specialist says, like her insides aren’t melting.

“I don’t want to try again. Trying hurts.”

“I know.”

“All any of this has done is made me feel like crap all the time! It’s just a new crappiness replacing the old!”

“I know.”

“If you know then why are you trying to put me on another one?”

“Because there’s a chance that one of these will work, and it’ll help you. I can’t tell you when it’ll happen or if it even will, but I’m telling you there’s a chance. You could feel better.” 

“Is there? Because I’ve been doing every single thing you tell me to do and I’m not feeling better. I listen to happy music, I talk about my feelings, I take your terrible pills and nothing is working. When is this supposed to start to work?”  
  
He is gruffer than her therapist, less thoughtful with his words. Less patient.

“You’re wanting simple solutions to a complex problem, and I can’t give you that. All I can say is it takes time, and it happens incrementally.”  
  
“That’s a nightmare. I don’t want to do this anymore. Is it really so bad? I’ve lived my entire life like this, I can keep going.”  
  
“I hear your words, but they don’t match what we’ve seen so far. You weren’t coping before. You were barely surviving. We are working so that you can do more than that.”

“It’s comfortable at least. I can sit in this misery and know every part of it, it’s a familiar pain. What’s the point in doing all this painful work if I’m eventually gonna feel sad again?” she says, defeated. 

“Because you’re not gonna feel sad all the time,” he says plainly. “Your sadness is gonna become manageable, and you’re going to have the resources on hand to deal with it if it’s not. You’re going to feel things that aren’t just sadness and exhaustion again. You’ll think about living without feeling dread.”

He places a hand on her shoulder, crouches down to meet her eyes (an impressive feat, as his people are well over seven feet tall).   
  
“It will happen. You just have to keep going.”

* * *

Healing takes time.

* * *

  
She’s been avoiding the conversation for as long as she could, but, as she’s learned, there is little her therapist will let her escape.  
  
“So,” she says, and Kara is already bracing from the tone. “I wanted to bring us back to something you’d briefly mentioned before. Your friend, Lena.”  
  
Lena who hasn’t spoken to her in weeks.  
Lena who knows.  
Her best friend, her biggest betrayal.

“Okay,” she says dumbly. Her therapist presses on.

“She’s a Luthor, right? How has that been, being so close to someone with so much shared baggage?”

“Lena is a good person,” Kara says, voice of steel, “She’s nothing like her brother.”

“I believe that. I’ve seen the work she’s done. The good. And she’s close to you, and I get the impression you’re selective with who you let in.”

“Yeah.”

“So how has your super identity impacted that relationship?”

Lena hasn’t spoken to her since their lunch. Kara hasn’t reached out either, of course, but neither has Lena. She says as much.

“What is stopping you from reaching out?” her therapist asks. Kara can’t help but laugh.

“I mean, everything. She_ knows _. She hates me, and I deserve it. I deserve it, for what I did.”

She’s crying now, again. It feels like she’s always crying here. 

“I always knew I needed to tell her, I did, but- it was never right. There was never a right time, and I knew she’d hate me. I knew she would, I knew it, and now she does, and I’ve lost her, and I can’t-”

She finds herself struggling to breathe against the emotional rush hitting her. She tugs at her shirt, presses into her chest, tries to stop the rushing waves that seem to overtake her. Everything feels far away all at once and she’s spiraling just trying to breathe. She feels someone touching her arm, hears a voice counting slowly. _ 1 2 3 4 exhale _ , the voice says. _ 1 2 3 4 inhale. _

She follows along as best she can, breaths ragged as she tries to focus solely on the voice.

Slowly, she comes back to herself.

“How are you feeling?” her therapist asks in a soft voice. Kara shrugs, croaks out an “alright”.

“When has that happened before?” the therapist asks.

Kara tells her about the time with Psy in the bank vault and when she was in the CatCo elevator. She tells her about a time in college, when she felt so alone even in a stream of other students. She thinks about but doesn’t mention when she awoke, briefly, during her years in the Phantom Zone. When she woke to darkness and immobility, when she found herself in that place between death and life anew.

Gradually her breathing steadies and her trembling stops.

They go in-depth on what happened then, on why discussing Lena triggered a panic attack. 

“You have lost so many things,” her therapist says, “you’re afraid of losing anything else, and the fear immobilizes you.” 

They spend the rest of the session doing grounding exercises. She focuses on her breathing, on the way the chair feels beneath her. She listens to the sounds around her, within her. She finds items nearby that she can identify, that are real and present in that moment that she can use to ground herself to the here and now.

She starts to learn how to find herself again when the panic hits.

* * *

  
She has lunch with Kelly one day at a quaint little bistro. It’s nice, even though they don’t know each other that well. Kelly is gentle in the right way. Kelly doesn’t talk to her like she’s two seconds away from a breakdown, she just talks. It’s nice.

Despite wanting to go a single day without talking about her mental health, Kara still finds herself rambling about all the little things she’s doing in therapy and how she’s still wondering what she’s missing.  
  
“I haven’t found the magic thing,” she says decidedly. Kelly chews on a french fry in contemplation.  
  
“What magic thing?”  
  
“You know, the thing. The magic moment when I figure out what I need to do, and do it, and things turn around. My therapist has me doing all kinds of things but none are it.”  
  
“I don’t think there is a magic thing, Kara. It’s not really a one-and-done kinda deal. It’s a lifestyle.”  
  
“A lifestyle of deep breathing and happy music?” Kara asks skeptically, eyeing Kelly’s fry pile. Kelly waves her hand in invitation and Kara immediately dives in, snarfing down a handful at once. 

“A lifestyle of healthier perspectives,” Kelly says while watching Kara eat in mild horror. “You’ve been living your life in a trauma response. Doing yoga or… or meditating, or whatever, isn’t supposed to be a magic cure. It’s supposed to be a perspective shift. The point is to unlearn that trauma way of thinking about things.” Kelly watches like a scientist observing some strange experiment as Kara waves at the waitress to order another thing of fries. 

“So listening to your happy music, doing therapy, trying to see things in a more positive light - all these things help shift that perspective a little bit. Rewiring your brain, remember?”

“I guess so. It just feels like I’m doing all this work and for what?”

Kelly smiles.   
  
“It adds up. It’s the little stones that build the mountains. If you stick to it, you’re gonna find it’ll feel less like work and more natural, and maybe, one day down the line, you’ll look around and realize that all those silly little things changed the way you think.”  
  
Kara looks thoughtfully at her, or as thoughtful as someone can look while fisting a pound of french fries.  
  
“So there’s no magic moment?” Kara says with obvious disappointment. Kelly just smiles.  
  
“I dunno,” she says, “all that sounds pretty magic to me.”

* * *

  
Kara writes a letter to her mom.

Rewrites it four times, and has Brainy double check it before she sends it through the network they’ve established connecting them to Argo City. She’s thankful they are able to type the Kryptonese letters; she’s embarrassed by how badly her handwriting has gotten in her native language.  
  
_ Failing yet again to keep Krypton alive, _ she thinks, then mentally amends to one of the lines she’s practiced with her therapist: _ I am not my planet’s keeper. It is not my sole responsibility to keep our memories alive. _

She doesn’t believe it, but she forces herself to think it. Perhaps that’s progress.

Her hands shake when she sends the letter. They shake when, three days later, she receives a response through the network.  
  
_My darling Kara, _her mother writes. _I am so sorry._

It takes her nearly an hour to finish reading it, as her eyes keep blurring over with tears.

* * *

  
She talks about Mon-El, about how finding him felt a bit like finding home. She talks nostalgically about their similar heritage, about wanting to stop being Kara and just be Supergirl and his girlfriend. 

“How is Supergirl not you?”

“She’s, I don’t know. She’s just better, stronger. She’s logical and just, like I was meant to be on my old planet. Not like who I have to be here.”

“So you view Supergirl as the Kryptonian version of you, whereas Kara Danvers is the human,” her therapist clarifies.

“Right. I got to be Kryptonian with him.” 

“What other things did you like about him? “

“He was funny, adventurous. We had fun together sometimes. It’s funny, I was so devastated when he left and I felt like the world was ending. I didn’t want to be a human anymore.”

“Losing that connection to your Kryptonian identity reopened that wound.”

“Yeah. It really did. Not that it ever closed, really. But having it happen again. Having an entire race just vanish into space like that...”

“It brought back some heavy stuff.”

She laughs, wipes the snot and tears.

“Pretty much yeah.”

“Maybe we should talk about that stuff,” her therapist prods gently, earning a groan.

* * *

Healing takes time.

* * *

  
Her therapist wants her to attend a group for “planetary refugees” where they sit around and talk about the planets they lost, or something. Nothing about it sounds fun or positive or like anything she’d ever like to do, so she just says she’ll think about it, hoping the topic drops.

She keeps taking the pills.

* * *

  
Alex, despite hating every second of it, continues to see the family counselor with Kara. They sit, and they talk, and they cry together, for hours at a time.  
  
They say the things they have never said out loud.  
  
Kara talks about her fears of Alex dating, about how she vanished from her life when she was with Maggie. How that makes Kara afraid of Kelly.  
  
Alex talks about how afraid she is every time she sees Kara get hurt, how she would run into gunfire if it meant keeping Kara safe. How the thought of Kara hurt makes her chest tight and eyes tunnel.

Their therapist says things like _codependency_ and _unhealthy boundaries_, which nearly makes Alex jump up and leave the room, but she stays. They’re both terrified, but they stay.  
  
Life continues on.

* * *

  
Every morning, Kara listens to her happy playlist, she even dances along like Nia told her to do.

She says her affirmations to herself, taps her post-its.  
  
She takes a few minutes to ground herself, to feel the Earth and hear the sounds without feeling crushingly overwhelmed.

She’s still unbearably sad.

* * *

  
“Today I’d like to talk about you, if that’s okay,” her therapist says.

“We talk about me every day,” she says, watching as her therapist places three sheets of paper down on a table beside them. Three sheets of paper with three names written down:

_ Kara Zor-El (written in the correct Kryptonese) _

_ Kara Danvers _

_ Supergirl _

“Who are these people?” her therapist asks.

“Me. They’re all versions of me.”

“I’d like you to tell me some positive traits they all have.”

It’s uncomfortable and she needs a little guidance, but Kara stares at the names before her and does her best.

“Kara Zor-el is capable. She’s a good student, and friend.” she says, “She’s.. A survivor.”

Her therapist writes as she speaks, nodding along. When Kara stops speaking, she smiles and gestures to the next name. Kara shifts uncomfortably in her seat, but continues. 

“Kara Danvers is funny. Clumsy, but sweet. Kind-hearted. She’s a good friend, too.”

“Supergirl is brave. She’s strong, a leader. She’s good. Hopeful.”

The therapist writes down what she says as she goes.

“Alright. Now I want you to read this back to me.”

Kara takes the list of traits, starts,

“Kara Zor-el is a-”

“No, no. Sorry. I want you to read it from your own perspective. Start with ‘I am’ rather than ‘she is’.”

Kara shifts uncomfortably, not loving the direction this has taken. But, after a moment, she starts.

“I am a survivor,” she reads, “and a good friend.”

_ I am funny _

_ I am kind  
_ _  
_ _ I am brave _

_ I am capable _

_ I am hopeful   
_ _  
_ _ I am good  
  
_

“But I’m not always,” she says, voice cracking. “I’m not always these things. I’m easily controlled, and I get so angry. It’s happened before, someone controlling me or me not controlling myself.” She laughs into her hands, exacerbated. “I’m so powerful and yet powerless to stop someone from controlling me like that. I hurt so many people. I almost killed my sister.”

“Are you responsible for things you can’t control?” her therapist asks, “Do you have to be perfect all the time to be good? Is that a fair standard?”

“Compassion isn’t innate in me, either,” Kara continues on, not hearing anything beyond her own panic, “I’ve met versions of myself who don’t have any at all. Who are filled with hatred and anger, and they could be me. They all could have been me if I’d had different life experiences.”  
  
“Yes, living in a multiverse certainly complicates things,” her therapist agrees, “But remember, you _aren’t_ those versions. You will never be those versions. The only person you will be is yourself, as you are in this world, with the experiences you’ve had. There are endless people you could have been. What matters is who you choose to be here. All those versions of you had to make choices. Not just one, but hundreds. They had to choose to embrace the darkness over and over. You have to make those same choices.”

“I make bad choices sometimes,” she says, small.

“Doing one bad or selfish thing doesn’t make you a bad, selfish person. It’s just you, making a poor choice. Being a flawed person, as we all are. What matters is what comes after - what choices you keep making.

Goodness is not an innate virtue that some have and others don’t. It’s a decision, it’s a life that’s chosen rather than assigned. You have the capacity for great evil inside you - so what? Join the club. We all do. What matters is what you do about it.”

Kara just looks at her with sad, hopeful eyes. Her therapist smiles softly and says,

“So I want you to read that list again, out loud, please.”

“I’m a survivor,” Kara says. “And a good friend.”

* * *

  
The pills don’t work until they do.

Whatever combination they have her on hits in just the right way and she finds herself laughing deeply, joyfully for the first time in a long time.

“Oh my gosh,” she says, with tears in her eyes, “I can feel something.”

It had been so long since she could.

It wasn’t a magical act; it didn’t make the sorrow go away. It was like she had been trapped in the water covered in heavy chains, just struggling to keep her head above water. Suddenly, with the medical assist, some of those chains fell away. She was still deep in the water so far from the shore, but she didn’t have to fight as hard to stay afloat. The medicine didn’t transport her safely to the shore, but it unlocked some of the chains holding her in the muck. She could finally catch her breath enough to start swimming.

* * *

  
Kara wakes to the sound of Alex sliding a bullet magazine into her gun.

She spent the night at Alex’s house, not in a ‘there are no healthy boundaries here’ kind of way, as their therapist so rudely suggested. More in a sisterly sleepover way.  
  
Regardless, she stayed at Alex’s and found herself pulled from her half-sleep by the racking of a gun.  
  
She’s out of bed and racing to the living room before the gun goes silent.  
  
“What’s happening?” she asks, nearly tripping over Alex’s couch. Alex is dressed in full DEO gear.  
  
“Damn, I was trying not to wake you,” she says wearily. “But something big is happening, I don’t know what. I have to go.”  
  
Kara stumbles her way back to the guest room, fumbling in the closet to where she knows a backup suit hangs hidden.  
  
“I’m coming too.”  
  
“Kara, no-” She rips her shirt over her head; it snags on her earring. “-you’re not cleared for duty yet, you really can’t.”

Kara falls forward, her leg caught in her pajama bottoms, and nearly puts a hole in the drywall.   
  
“You said it’s big. If it’s big, you _need _Supergirl. I’m coming.”

She’s got her pants off at that and she grabs the corset that composes most of her suit. Alex’s phone buzzes again and she looks at it in distress, then back at her sister fumbling to get her top on.  
  
“Okay. Fine! Okay, you can come. I just,” her phone buzzes again and she immediately heads to the door. “I have to go, but you come when you’re ready and just - be careful, okay?”

Kara’s ‘_you got it, boss! _ ’ probably goes unheard as she rushes out the door, slamming it behind her. Heart racing, Kara finally manages to get the corset on.  
  
“Okay okay okay,” she says quietly, struggling into her skirt. The material feels tacky against her skin, scraping against her as she tugs it on. She twists it, then twists it again, trying to get it right - why can’t she get it right? The cape feels so heavy on her shoulders as she tries to clip it into place, and her hands won’t stop shaking. Her vision is black around the corners and her hands are shaking and she can’t find the clip and the corset is sticking to her skin so tightly she feels it constricting, digging into her chest like tendrils, pressing and trapping her and she’s suffocating and-

_ 1,2,3 exhale _ , she thinks as she tumbles to her knees hard enough to dent the floor. _ 1,2,3 inhale. _Over and over she goes. Air comes slow, painfully, and it’s only after she’s managed to rip the top off of her body that her lungs can fully fill. 

“I am in my sister’s closet,” she gasps out to herself with a watery breath, “I can see her clothes, and the light, and her bed. I can feel the carpet beneath me.”

Slowly, she comes back to herself.

When Alex comes home many hours later, she’ll find Kara drinking hot cocoa at her kitchen island reading a magazine. She’ll ask what happened, and Kara will just shrug and say, “it looked like you guys could handle it.”

She won’t notice the way Kara’s hands shake as she turns the magazine page.

* * *

Healing takes its time.

* * *

  
She goes to the group meeting. 

It’s in a backroom of a local church that preaches inclusivity, and it’s led by an alien with bright red eyes and a kind smile.

Kara knows they recognize her the second she walks in. She isn’t wearing the uniform, but she isn’t wearing her glasses, either. Just an oversized sweater and jeans with her hair in a loose bun. Still, they know.

“Thank you for joining us,” the group leader says. “It’s always nice to see new faces here.”

There are six other aliens in the group, four of which mostly look human. She can see in the way their eyes slit, in the way their skin shimmers, that they’re more than that. Some have scabby skin, like they’re growing out of a too-tight layer, while others glisten. They all eye her with a weary awareness; they know, and she knows they know. The only person who doesn’t seem weary of her is the group leader, who just smiles with a mouth too wide to be terrestrial.

“So,” he continues, “We like to start each session with a check-in, so how about everyone say their name and maybe what planet they came from, and how their week has been on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the best it could be. Who’d like to start?”

They go around the circle, speaking in various tones and intonations, listing planets that Kara knows are war-torn or brutal. All have fled something to get here, to survive. The group gets to her and she’s hesitant to speak, hyperaware. She takes a deep breath and says,

“My name is Kara Zor-el, and I am a daughter of Krypton.”

No one reacts, no one yells her identity. They all just stare, waiting.

“And where are you on the scale, Kara Zor-el, daughter of Krypton?”

“Oh, probably a 4.”

* * *

Kara calls Lena.  
  
It’s accidental in a way, more instinct than choice. She’s walking by a food truck and sees they offer a kale-stuffed cheese stick and she is so filled with horrified fascination that she’s got the phone pressed to her ear before she can reconsider.  
  
It rings three times before Lena picks up.  
  
“Hello?” she says in a cautious, professionally distant voice.  
  
“Lena, you’re not gonna believe-” Kara starts, and then like a switch flipped on she remembers. Lena isn’t talking to her anymore. Lena may not ever want to talk to her again. “I- um. It’s… a food truck, with kale.”

She’s met with silence, long enough that she checks to see if she’d been hung up on. She hadn’t.

“Food trucks have been known to have food, yes,” Lena says, finally, with the slightest tease to her voice. Relief floods through her so sharply she feels almost barreled over.  
  
“Calling that food seems like a major stretch, ma’am,” she nearly gushes, overjoyed, “especially when combined with something as beautiful as cheese sticks.”  
  
Somehow, amazingly, Lena chuckles.  
  
“So a healthy, nutritious plant isn’t food, but a deep fried piece of cow juice is?”  
  
“Oh my God, Lena!” Kara is laughing bodily, “could you please not call it that? Literally say anything else but that.”  
  
Lena chuckles still and Kara wants so badly to see her, to hug her, to tell her how painful life has been. Instead she says,  
  
“I miss you.”

And she doesn’t know what she expects, really, but if there’s one thing she’s learning it’s that honesty may be the best policy, even when it’s painful. Especially then.  
  
“I can’t do this,” Lena says, and hangs up.

* * *

  
Her therapist clears her for duty. She does it with a big smile, like she’s waiting for Kara to celebrate with her. Kara just stares at the paperwork she’s been handed in concern.  
  
“Are you sure?” she asks.

“I am sure,” she says slowly. “But what matters is what you think. Do you feel ready?”

Kara doesn’t have an answer.

* * *

  
She has individual counseling.  
  
She has therapy with Alex.  
  
She has group.

Days into days into days.

She actually likes group, strangely enough. There are a variety of people there, all from planets she’s only read about, and they all have such interesting things to say. While she does talk some, she finds she gets the most from just listening to the exchanges.  
  
One of them is discussing the issues she’s having with their new roommate, another new arrival to Earth who is still adjusting to the culture.  
  
“I’ve had to tell them the garbage was off limits _ six times _ and still they insist on eating it.”

“Are they single?” another, a Maldorian named Gara, says, “Cause if they like trash I’m just their type.”

They all laugh, Kara included, but the group leader interrupts after a moment.

“I just want to take a second to bring awareness to what just happened. Gara made a joke at their own expense, and everyone laughed. Which makes sense - because it was a funny joke! But it was also one that purposefully put themselves down.”  
  
Gara sinks into their chair looking like they might be in trouble, but the group leader smiles supportively.

“Humor can be a great way of expressing frustration,” he says, “but it can also feed the fire. The way you talk impacts the way you think, the way you think impacts the way you feel. If you talk about how terrible you are enough times, you internalize it. Even if you think you’re joking. We are what we repeatedly do, Don’t do things that only serve to put you down.”

Things move on from there, but the words sit heavy in Kara’s mind.

Their session runs over by ten minutes before they’re politely kicked out to make room for the AA meeting to follow.

* * *

  
Kara stands in the sunlight while she waits for a bus, eyes closed, basking.  
  
It feels nice.  
  
She hums one of the songs Nia gave her to herself as she decides to walk instead.

* * *

Healing is a slow snowfall, piece by piece covering old scars in fresh new beginnings. It takes its time.

* * *

Things are feeling better, she’s feeling better, but there’s still so much.

Her therapist suggests something else. Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing.

“Which means…” she drawls, and her therapist smiles.

“Which means you recount a traumatic incident while following my guidance with your eyes. It should help.”

Kara isn’t entirely convinced, but she might as well. 

* * *

  
They lead her through it. The doctor has her follow a pen with her eyes, up and down side to side in quick swipes, while she tells the story of her people’s death.

She recounts it in detail, talks of the fiery reds and death screams, tears running down her face the whole time while her eyes flicker and move about.

“It works well with humans,” the doctor explains. “The science isn’t entirely understood but the research is undeniable. Something about the rapid eye movement triggers the part of the brain that holds on to the trauma, and through this process it eases it.” 

She’s not sure if it works, but she sleeps the whole night afterwards for the first time in a long time.

* * *

  
Someone at work makes a joke about how terrible they are, how it's never a surprise when they fail.

“Come on, man,” Kara finds herself saying immediately. “Be nice to yourself. You’re doing your best.”

He looks at her kind of funny but they both let it go.

* * *

  
The alarm sounds loud throughout the DEO during her therapy session. Another day, another crisis.  
  
Her therapist doesn’t say anything, just looks at her with an open expression. Kara fingers at the button of her shirt, thinks of the suit she’s wearing beneath.  
  
“Not today,” she says, and hopes it doesn’t sound like _not ever.  
  
_

* * *

  
One night, she comes home to Lena standing at her door.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” Kara says back dumbly.  
  
Lena has a bag of doughnuts and a deeply uncomfortable expression.

“I talked to Alex, and she said that you’d be here tonight and that we could talk. If that’s okay with you, of course, I don’t mean to presume-“

“No! I mean, yes! Please!” Kara clears her throat, calms herself, “I would love that.”

“Oh. Okay. Good.”

Kara fumbles trying to unlock the door, aware of how close Lena is, how she’s closer than she’s been in ages. They both move to walk in at the same time, then both jump back before they can touch. Kara gestures for Lena to lead the way, and she follows close behind.

Lena maintains a solid three feet of space between her and Kara for most of the evening, her posture stiff and eyes wet. Kara hovers behind her, nervously fiddling with her hands.

“Would you like any hot cocoa?" Kara asks, "Alex bought me a massive pack at Costco-”  
  
“So I’ve been thinking about how you betrayed me.”  
  
“- It tastes pretty good, though the marshmallows are a little – oh, okay. Yes, okay.”

"I've been thinking about it for literal months," she says as she starts pacing in front of her, "and the one response that keeps playing over and over for me is - how dare you?"

Kara sits down heavily. Lena continues on.

“Do you understand how difficult it is for me to trust someone?"  
  
Kara nods, sniffling as the tears start to come. Lena presses on.  
  
“Do you understand how much of myself I gave to you? How much I trusted you? I feel like I felt after Lex! I never wanted to feel that way again, and you’ve made me feel that way. Do you understand?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”  
  
Lena crowds into her space, pointing an accusatory finger at her.  
  
“You’re sorry?” she snaps, laughing, “Which part are you sorry for – the lying for years, or the getting caught? Are you sorry the only person who was ever honest with me was apparently my godawful brother?”  
  
“What? I –“ she can feel the blood drain from her face. “Wait, _he_ told you?”  
  
She laughs bitterly.  
  
“On his dying breath. He told me how alone I was, how low you thought of me. How every person I care for knew and kept it from me.”  
  
“Oh Lena, I’m so sorry.”  
  
"Yes, you've said. What you haven’t said is the truth! You never once told me the truth – was any of it real? Were you just trying to keep an eye on me?”

Lena gets it out, yelling and shouting as Kara just takes it.  
  
“Well?” she says in a voice that cracks, “do you have nothing to say?”  
  
Kara shifts from foot to foot, arms crossed tight over her chest.  
  
“Would you like hot cocoa now?” she asks.

* * *

  
Despite Lena’s half-hearted protests, they drink their hot cocoa on Kara’s bed.

She wraps one of her bigger blankets around herself and offers another to Lena saying, “hard talks feel softer when you’re cozy.”

Lena stews in silence, sipping at her drink. Kara takes her time to really think before replying.

“I wish I could give you a reason that’ll make you go ‘wow, Kara, that makes so much sense! You’re a genius!’” she says, pausing thoughtfully, “but the truth is I don’t know for sure why I never told you.”  
  
Lena tugs the blanket tighter around herself and looks like she might speak, so Kara presses on quickly,

“It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. I trust you so much, basically as much as my sister. And it’s not like I didn’t hate lying to you, because I did. Looking back, it doesn’t seem like it makes sense for me to have kept it secret for so long.”

She shifts closer to Lena, who doesn’t move but doesn’t seem all too inviting.  
  
“The truth is I was scared. Like, full-blown panic attack scared. I knew things would change when you knew and that you might hate me, and the thought of that freaked me out too much so I just... ignored it.” She sips from her hot cocoa, looking thoughtful. “It’s possible my fear of change might come from the traumas I experienced as a kid. After losing so many people I loved and hiding for so many years – I think my brain saw the threat of another big loss and just shut it down.”  
  
Kara upends her hot cocoa, dragging her tongue across the powdered remnants lining the inner rim while Lena just gawks at her. She sets the mug on the table and wipes at her lips, says,

“That doesn’t excuse it, obviously. It’s not cool to use my trauma as an excuse to be a jerk to you. It just, I don’t know. Explains it, I guess? If you’re wanting explanations.”  
  
And then she waits, her expression soft and open while she watches Lena process her words. After a solid minute of silence, Lena finally mumbles,  
  
“Wow. That was some self-awareness you got there.”  
  
Kara laughed, shaking her head.  
  
“Yeah dude, I’ve had, like, a stupid amount of therapy.”

* * *

  
They talk about the viral video.

Kara hasn’t watched it again since that first time so many months ago. Lena’s watched it dozens of times, analyzing every moment. Terrified while still so, so angry.

“I felt like that,” Lena says. “After Lex’s arrest. You know,” she waves her hand.

“Suicidal?” Kara offers, and Lena laughs a quick burst.   
  
“Incredibly blunt, goodness. Yes, When the whole world hates everything you are, it’s hard not to feel that way. Ultimately though I realized that would be exactly what Lex would want. Then I realized I had to stay alive, if for nothing else than just to spite the bastard. Not the healthiest thing,” she says with a laugh, “but it keeps me alive, and there’s something to be said about that.”

Kara tries not to look too sad at her words but by the way Lena folds inward she can tell it’s apparent.  
  
“Well,” Kara says, soft, “I hope that’s not the only thing keeping you going these days.”  
  
Lena hands Kara her empty mug, still filled with marshmallows she didn’t drink. Kara immediately jams her finger in to fish them out.  
  
“No,” Lena says, watching her dig around, “I suppose I have other things to look forward to these days.”  
  
Kara laughs a bit and tries not to spit out a marshmallow.

“Yeah, it’s so nice and weird to look forward to things.”

Lena lets out a sad little sigh.  
  
“Kara, hearing you say things like that...” she shakes her head, “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t see it.” She wipes her eyes, which have a distant look to them. “I suppose there’s a lot I didn’t see.”

It’s a heavy moment. Their moments may all be heavy, from now on. Kara slurps up the last of the marshmallows and tries to hide the tiny bit that spills on her comforter. Lena’s small smirk tells her it wasn’t well hidden in the slightest.

“Do you like therapy?” Lena asks.

“Sometimes. I hate a lot of it, though.”

“Then why do you keep going?”

“It gave me a name for something that always felt indescribable. She told me I had clinical depression and severe post traumatic stress, and it was like - oh. Of course. She gave me the words I didn’t know I needed. It’s terrifying and amazing to be able to articulate your feelings.” 

“Maybe I should give it a try.”

“I really think you should.”

Lena stays the night.

* * *

  
They have big game night, even break out the nice wine. Lena comes.  
  
Things aren’t perfect, nowhere near. The weight of her secret’s reveal hangs over all of them, and it will take time for things to feel alright again.  
  
But Lena’s here, and all her other friends are here, and no matter the tension it is still so nice, being surrounded by so many people she cares for.

It’s nice.

* * *

  
It creeps in slow like a winter sunrise. Gradual, drawn out so that she hardly notices it’s happening, hardly notices the darkness lightening bit by incremental bit. What was a pitch darkness has faded into soft reds and blues, her world of grey turned color. 

She’s starting to feel alive again.

* * *

  
Another day, another group session.

It’s a normal discussion, they talk about the process of assimilation, of holding on to their old selves while establishing new ones. Someone mentions a missing example of that - their beloved Supergirl.

“She still hasn’t shown up,” one of them says, looking at the ceiling. Kara sinks into her seat a bit. “I hope she’s doing okay.”

“She’s just afraid,” Another one says pointedly while looking at her.

“She’s not afraid,” Kara snips, feeling silly. “Maybe she’s waiting for the right time.”

“When’s the right time? What does the right time look like?”

She doesn’t have an answer.

She doesn’t know.

“Is it so wrong?” Another asks, “being afraid?”  
  
She feels hot, having them all look at her, having them know. The group leader steps in then, saying,  
  
“I think it’s understandable, being afraid. I’d say we’re all pretty familiar with that feeling, right? Coming to a new world - that’s terrifying. Why don’t we talk a bit about fear, then?”

The group leader writes it on the chalkboard behind them:

_ What does it mean to be afraid? _

_ What does it mean to be brave? _

They spend the entire hour session discussing it.

* * *

Acknowledge the fear, then kick its ass.

* * *

  
They’re in a family session when the alert flashes red, when shouts and rushing soldiers echo loud even through the lead door. Something, some force they’ve not yet identified, is attacking the city. Attacking L-Corp.

Kara trails behind them as they suit up, watches Guardian and Dreamer and Brainiac and her very human sister prepare to attack an unknown force like always, and Kara knows she has to be there. She can feel it. It’s time.

They must see it in her eyes, too, must realize by the way she stands straighter. It’s been five months now since Supergirl’s last appearance, since the rumors of her mental health and possible death began to swirl.

“What do you think?” Alex asks, and Kara can feel the entire room stop in that moment, waiting. She takes a deep breath, presses her fists to her hips.

“Looks like a job for Supergirl,” she says, and blasts off.

* * *

  
Concrete cracks beneath her as she slams down in front of L Corp. The building is awash in chaos as firefighters battle back the flames destroying the lower floors while massive, winged creatures screech above. One breathes fire out over the crowd of onlookers, who all scream and duck only to be saved by Kara’s matching ice breath blasting the flames from the sky. The creatures don’t like that, of course, and instead turn all their attention towards Supergirl - which is okay with her, as that allows the civilians a chance to escape. 

They grapple, though they don’t stand a chance. Kara takes them out one by one, going until the last one taps out in a chokehold. After being certain it’s out, she gets to her feet with a shaky breath and wipes her knees off.

Everything is a mess. Definitely not the clean takedown she usually tries to do. Maybe she got a little rusty in her time off, so sue her (a joke J’onn told her to stop making after she caused the city nearly a half million in damage in one exciting month last year). Still, she managed to stop the carnage and protect the people.

She gradually becomes aware of the crowd around her, the citizens who have emerged from the chaos and ruins to stare. This is her first public appearance as Supergirl since everything began, she realizes. The suit feels so exposed, bright primary colors against a background of smoke. Everyone is staring, whispering quietly amongst themselves _ it’s her she’s here oh my god. _ Kara presses her fists to her hips in a power pose and tries to ignore the shaking in her fingertips. Her chest feels tight; she focuses on her breathing.

The fire chief approaches her then, taking careful steps around the creatures and rubble, and stops just a foot in front of her. He takes his helmet off and holds it, tucked under his arm, and offers her his hand.

She shakes it, holding on to him for a moment as he looks at her with kind eyes.

“Glad to have you back, Supergirl,” he says. “Your city’s missed you.”

She feels a firm hand on her back and turns to see a woman she recognizes as a newspaper seller down the block, smiling at her. Another stranger moves to shake her hand, then another. More approach, surrounding her, some touching her shoulders in a comforting grasp while others just stand nearby and grin. She’s surrounded then by citizens of her city, all clamoring to be as close to her as they can. They all say variations of the same thing - we missed you, welcome back, thank you. 

A younger woman worms her way to the front and catches her hand between her own, holds it tight. Looks hard into Kara’s eyes.

“Supergirl,” she says with intense sincerity, like she’s amazed she gets to say it at all. “I am so happy you’re still with us.”

Kara smiles then, a deep one she can feel throughout herself, and she says, small and genuine,

“Me too.”

She then steps from the crowd, stands straighter, and, with a flourish, takes flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Healing takes time. It’s okay to take your time. 
> 
> Final chapter will be posted when I am able, [click here](https://karalovesallthegirls.tumblr.com/help) for additional resources (link may not work on Androids. Working on it).
> 
> Also, here's my [sweet sounds of serotonin. ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/63943O8366TL5cNyvz4UN0?si=1UBq9F73SDamM_2YQN3IVA)


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